


Mistaken

by shelllessturtle



Series: Errors [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Rough Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 09:28:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10510977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shelllessturtle/pseuds/shelllessturtle
Summary: His mistake lies in letting her wander unsupervised. After all, he has long known that the beast in the castle isn't the only one lurking nearby.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EccentricElf23](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EccentricElf23/gifts).



> So my dear friend was feeling down a while ago, and I offered to write something to a prompt to help her feel better, and to get my own creative juices flowing. She prompted "the wolf scene from Beauty and the Beast, followed by sex in front of the fire, and Belle telling Rumple that he's not a monster." This is what I produced. And now I'm finally posting it. Enjoy!

He makes the mistake, one brisk spring morning, of letting her walk the grounds herself. She won’t run, he knows, because she has _chosen_ to stay with him. No, the mistake lies in that he is not the only beast who keeps to these grounds, and his Belle’s curiosity often overrules her common sense.

But she asked so prettily, and he hasn’t been able to deny her anything for a long time. So he let her go, and she wandered off with a smile on her face and a parcel full of food under her arm, saying that she would be back by dinner.

And now it is well past dinner, and she is still gone. Rumplestiltskin wonders vaguely if he should be worried about her. But he is spinning, not thinking, forgetting, and he doesn’t think too hard on it.

He would like to be able to say that it is sudden. That Belle is near the edge of their domain, that he’s not extended his senses beyond his land, and that the beast jumps the border in a moment. But it isn’t true. The truth is that he has not been paying attention. He has all but forgotten his precious girl, left her to fend for herself against the less benevolent beasts near their home. And when she is accosted, when his sense of her well-being flares with _surprise/terror_ , he would like to be able to say that he teleports directly to her side, wastes not an instant in getting her to safety. But that is not true, either.

He freezes. He hesitates for unforgivably long seconds, leaves her alone in her troubles as he is paralyzed in a fear of losing her _which can’t happen if he moves NOW_. And when he does summon the magic, when he does try to go to her, he is _afraid_ and he can’t _concentrate_ on the teleportation, and he lands in the wrong place.

Cursing under his breath, he runs in the direction of the feminine shouting, the angry growling, forgoing possibly-unhelpful magic in favor of definite speed. He breaks into the clearing at a dead sprint, and skids to a halt as he takes in the scene.

The creature menacing his Belle is a large wolf; not a werewolf—a fact made obvious by the waning half-moon in the sky—but far too big to be natural. Belle is not running; she is soaked to the skin, backed up against a large tree, and holding a branch nearly half as long as she is tall, visibly trembling as she faces down a beast that could kill her with one well-placed bite.

Rumplestiltskin shoves his own fear aside and shouts to get the animal’s attention. It spins, perhaps hoping that this new presence will be easier prey than the terrified-but-fighting young woman. To its probable dismay, Rumplestiltskin proves the true predator in this situation, and sends the beast limping and howling off with a few well-aimed, over-powered fireballs.

The whole battle lasts perhaps ten seconds. Belle stares at him. He thinks she is frozen in shock or terror, but then he notices that she is trembling. No, she is _shivering_. Of course; she is soaked.

He hardly thinks as he strides over to her. Normally, he could do this magic from a distance, but he can’t _concentrate_. Not when he’s almost lost her. He wraps an arm around her waist and wills the magic to take them somewhere safe, somewhere warm.

She manages to sag against him during the near-instantaneous trip. She takes a moment to rally, a moment in which he realizes that they are in his bedroom (and he truly _hadn’t_ intended them to end up here, but it does certainly qualify as both safe and warm), and then she speaks. She doesn’t say what she must be thinking, not “I thought you weren’t going to come,” or “What took you so long?” No, instead she murmurs a simple, “Thank you, Rumplestiltskin.”

The usual wave of fearful pleasure that washes over him when she says his name seems amplified with her wet and in his arms, in his _bedroom_ , and he clutches her closer without putting much thought into it.

He cannot answer, because he almost _didn’t_ save her, which is unacceptable, and the loss was so close that he cannot let her go, either. It is only when she starts shivering again that he realizes that her usual warmth is somewhat diminished. “I-I should—” But he never learns what she should do, because there is a fire in the grate before he has truly thought to create it, and she stops speaking.

She relaxes a bit, sighs a little. His arm is still around her waist, and his other hand goes to tangle gently in her hair. It is wet, just like the rest of her. Her shivering has lessened, but not stopped. “Sit,” he practically whispers. “Get warm.”

In the flickering, uncertain light of the fire, it is difficult to tell, but he thinks she blushes. “You won’t leave me?” she murmurs back.

“Never.” The word slips out before he can stop it. But she must already know; she has proven that she will never leave him, so it is only fair that he prove that the reverse is true.

They sit together. After a little shifting, her back presses to his chest, and he cannot mourn the proximity, though they are separated by the blanket he has conjured to wrap around her. His hand returns to her hair, and he strokes through it, gently removing snarls and leaving it dry in the wake of his fingers. She sighs, contentedly, and presses a little closer as he works.

When every last strand of her hair is dry, he wraps his arms around her waist and drops his nose to the crown of her head. He cannot help noting that she smells divine, and, without thinking, he drops a kiss amongst her curls.

She stops breathing. Her entire body goes still, just for a moment, but it is long enough that he can feel. When she starts again, he doesn’t even have time to wonder how big a mistake he’s made before a tiny, cold hand has crept out of the warmth of the blankets and come to rest on his thigh. She strokes him gently through the leather, her hand moving farther from his knee on every stroke.

The indicated desire and implicit permission are enough for him. He gathers up the warm, auburn curls he has just cared for and places them over her shoulder before gently covering the back of her neck in open-mouthed kisses. She hisses with pleasure when he applies his tongue, and groans when he sucks at her skin.

When he releases her, leaving the spot red and likely to bruise, she spins between his legs, shedding the blanket as she goes. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” she murmurs, blue eyes full of longing, quiet joy, and liquid desire.

He cups her chin gently in his hand, careful of his nails. “If it’s anywhere near as long as I have, dearest,” he informs her, “then I have _some_ idea.” He can taste the grin his words produce in the moment before he kisses it off her lips.

She sighs so softly as their mouths move together, and it is a sound he wants to hear every day for the rest of his life. He kisses her softly, with lips and teeth and tongue, and she responds with enthusiasm, though little finesse. His heart soars when the realization of what that means penetrates the fog of Belle around his brain. This is new to her, and he will get to teach her everything.

She pulls away minutes later, panting heavily, and he abandons her lips, searching for a place to put his mouth to work that still allows her to breathe. The spot he finds is just below her pulse point, and seems more sensitive than the rest of her neck. He sets to work, determined to make a mark even darker than the first one he left. Her hands are doing something, but he is too wrapped up in how heavenly she tastes to really care, so when her still slightly chilled fingers brush against the uncovered flesh of his chest, he is so surprised he bites down on the spot he has claimed his own. He pulls back immediately, ready to apologize profusely and promise anything so long as she doesn’t stop this, but the look on her face freezes the words before they leave his mouth.

Her head is thrown back, her eyes shut, and her mouth gapes in an expression of startled, beautiful bliss. “Again,” she breathes. “Oh, Rumplestiltskin, please, do it again.”

His name falling out of her mouth like that pulls a whimper from the back of his throat, and he falls back to her skin, kissing and sucking and biting and tugging, drawing noises from her throat that make him think that if he devoured her whole, she would be willing to go.

Her hands tangle in his hair, though whether to hold him where his is or to anchor herself, he does not know. Finally-warmed fingers squeeze tight, pulling whenever he digs his teeth into her harder than before, and they probably aren’t going to make it fully out of their clothes at this rate.

The idea inflames him; that she wants him so much she doesn’t want to pause to make this more comfortable makes him moan against her throat.

“Gods, Rumplestiltskin,” she whimpers. “More, oh please, more.”

He pauses. He thinks he knows what she is after, but he decides that it would be better to check than to assume. “What is it you want, Belle?” he asks her.

She opens her eyes, meets his gaze, and he finds firelight reflected back at him, amplifying the fierce hunger swimming in all that blue. “Everything. I want everything, Rumplestiltskin.”

He will not tire of hearing his name spoken like that any time soon, and he smiles, a purely happy expression that has not crossed his face in more years than he can count. “As my lady wishes,” he murmurs, and reaches for the laces of her dress.

He watches as her bodice falls loose and she pulls in a full breath for the first time since this began. Her eyes are closed, he breasts press gently into his hands with each inhale, and he can see her tremble as his rough palms brush across her newly exposed skin. She whimpers slightly, grabbing his wrists and pressing his hands into her flesh.

“Yes,” she hisses. “More like that, Rumplestiltskin. Harder, please.”

Even as he complies, stroking and cupping and kneading, he cannot help murmuring, “I don’t want to overwhelm you, love.”

Her eyes flutter open, and her glare now is as fierce as it ever has been. “And if I want to be overwhelmed?”

The heat in his belly performs a strange twist at her words, and he practically tackles her to the ground as his control snaps. The grin that spreads across her face is like sunrise after a storm, and he swallows it whole. He takes her lower lip between his teeth and tugs, gently at first, then a little harder, as his hand trips down her skirt to find bare leg. She shivers as he drags his nails lightly up her skin, only to laugh at his noise of displeasure when he encounters her pantaloons.

“You’re overdressed,” he growls.

“So are you,” she shoots back, still smiling like the sunrise.

He feels a feral grin spread across his face. “I can fix that very easily.” Shifting so his weight is resting entirely on his knees, he practically rips her undergarments from her. She squeaks in surprise, and when he glances up at her, her eyes are glazed and her face is flushed. The firelight flickers across her features, casting dancing shadows onto her skin, making her look ethereal, like a goddess, and he is the lucky man she is allowing to worship her.

He stares, and she lets him. Splayed on her back as she is, bodice open, carefully dried hair now a tangled mess, skin flushed, with his hand poised to slip under her skirts, it comes into his head that she looks like a sacrifice, a virgin given up to appease the beast. His mouth waters at the prospect at the same time that he is disgusted with himself for wanting so much to taint her innocence.

She can feel the change in his mood. “Rumplestiltskin,” she murmurs, and he wishes she wouldn’t do that. His name on her lips has always made him quiver, and no moreso than now, when she is laid out before him. “Something is bothering you. Tell me?”

And though it is but a request, she is his goddess, and he can only obey.

“You’re beautiful,” he says. “Everything about you is lovely, and I’m…I’m a monster. I was a monster before I met you, and I’m even more monstrous for wanting you the way I do. I don’t deserve you. You deserve better than me.” Her light should be nowhere near his darkness, and he hates himself for wanting her close.

“Rumplestiltskin,” she says again, very firmly, “you are _not_ a monster. Monsters take what is not offered, and give nothing in return. Monsters do what they wish, with no regard for others. Most important, monsters do not see anything wrong with what they do. Now _come here_.” Need and demand hold equal strength in her last two words, and, no, she is not a sacrifice. She is an offering to him, an offering she makes herself, in the same moment that she is a goddess for him to worship.

He covers her body with his, his teeth searching out as-yet-unmarked flesh as his hand slides gently under the many layers of fabric that make up her dress. He nips gently down her breasts as his finger breaches her folds for the first time. She is positively _soaked_ , and she trembles, her eyes snapping shut, her hands finding his hair and gripping tightly, tugging slightly, then her nails dig into his scalp and he suddenly realizes why she likes the biting so much. The soft, deliberate pain is _delicious_ , and the sensation crawls down his spine and settles in the part of his body that has been begging for the most attention since this began, and that he has been doing his best to ignore for just as long.

His fingers have become slick with the slippery fluid that is practically dripping out of her, and her hips are twitching violently in the direction of his hand in a motion that begs just as loudly as any words could. Finally, he pushes one finger gently inside her, and groans at the sensation of being surrounded by her wet heat at the same time she quakes and then goes absolutely still. Her eyes are open again, and as she pins him with her bright blue gaze, he knows that while he may be the more experienced in these matters, while he may be draped across her, his fingers inside her, bringing her pleasure like she’s never felt before, ostensibly in control,  it is she who holds all the power.

“More,” she breathes, and he quickly adds a second finger, and then a third. He does not want to hurt her, but she seems to revel in the rough handling. The motions of his hand are short and sharp, and her whimpers and moans are of pleasure, not pain. His mouth has found her skin again, and he is pressing hard kisses and gentle bites to every inch of her breasts, paying special attention to her nipples, which he has found to be delightfully sensitive. He settles his lips around her left nipple, working it with a suction to rival that which he applied to her neck earlier, as his free hand comes up to her right breast, kneading the whole thing for a moment before pinching that nipple between his nails, twisting and tugging.

His thumb finds the little nubbin of flesh above her entrance, and after just a few strokes in rhythm with his fingers’ thrusts, he can feel her entire body go taut. He rips his mouth from her breast and looks up at her face just in time to see it contort with pleasure. Her inner walls clench almost painfully tight around his fingers as every muscle in her body seems to spasm and she _screams_ his name. He is aching to be completely inside her, to follow her over that ledge, but he controls himself, nursing her gently through it, prolonging her pleasure, watching as she shatters beneath him, because of him, and for him.

It seems like an eternity passes before her shaking ceases. As she pants to catch her breath, he lays himself out beside her, one hand rubbing gently circles on her abdomen, the other propping up his head so he can watch her. She is limp and boneless on the floor, her eyes unfocused and glassy, her smile gentle and dazed.

Her breathing finally slows, and there is a moment of silence before she whispers, “That was wonderful. Thank you, Rumplestiltskin.” It sounds final, and he tries not to show disappointment. Though she _had_ said “everything”, he won’t push her if she has changed her mind, and he is perfectly capable of taking care of himself. But he so _wants_ —

The movement is sudden, and she is straddling his thighs. She smiles down at him, and the sun in her expression warms him more than the real sun has done in all the centuries he’s lived. She’s so _beautiful_ , with her hair tangled and wild, her bodice open and falling to her waist, her lips kissed red, the bruises from his teeth already appearing on her skin. It’s almost as if she’s made entirely out of light, and gods above, she is _his_ now, well and truly his, in the same way he has been hers since she tumbled off that stupid ladder and into his arms.

Eager fingers have worked open his trousers as he has contemplated her in her tousled glory, and he lets out the most undignified noise he has made during this whole process as her tiny hand slips past his laces and grasps him tightly. She strokes him, and he makes a garbled sound that started somewhere as her name. His hips jerk towards her involuntarily, and _gods_ , this is beautiful, exquisite _torture_ , and if this is what it takes to kill him, he will go gladly in her hands.

Her hands are still on him, but she has stopped moving. She glances down at her hand, then up at his face, blushing slightly. “I’m…not entirely certain how this next part works,” she admits quietly. “I know the basics, but…”

He smiles gently, careful to contain any manic glee brought about by confirmation that he is, in fact, her first, and pulls her down to him. Instead of kissing her, as she perhaps anticipates, he takes her left earlobe between his teeth and tugs for a moment, before releasing her and whispering, “Let me show you.”

She shivers, and then whimpers when he drags his teeth across the sensitive skin behind her ear. He throws out the hand not being used to hold Belle against him, and summons a pillow from his bed. Once it’s laid out beside them, he rolls them so he is on top and her head is cushioned, and then he pauses, just looking.

They have somehow wound up on the previously discarded blanket, and he hopes that it and the thick rug beneath it are comfort enough for Belle, because he doesn’t think that he could get them to the bed if he tried at this point. His state of partial-undress matches hers, with his shirt fully open (when did _that_ happen?) and his trousers unlaced and pushed just far enough out of the way. Her eyes are tracking down his bare skin, and he cannot _possibly_ be imagining that much heat and hunger in her eyes, can he?

Then she looks up at him and breathes, “Rumplestiltskin, please.” He cannot, can never, deny her.

He fumbles a bit with the tangled fabric of her skirts, but then they are out of the way and he is between her thighs and pressing against her core and sheathing himself inside her in one fluid motion. Her eyes are wide and there is a look of utter joy and wonder on her face, and he knows there must be a similar one on his own. She is all wetness and heat, her body wrapped tight around him, as if to protect him and hold him safe, and he has to fight not to finish in that moment.

He pauses when he has sunk himself all the way into her, breathing raggedly, holding on to his control. She waits beneath him, her hands wrapped loosely around his upper arms, fingers stroking his still-covered skin. When he is ready, he meets her eyes, and there is that sunrise smile again, and she nods ever so slightly, and he begins to move.

His motions are gentle at first, slow and long, meant to reignite her desire, because he _will_ make her come again. It does not take long, however, before she is urging him on, tiny gasps pushing him faster just as much as each whispered, “harder”, “yes”, “more”, and “there, gods, right _there_ , Rumplestiltskin.”

He has braced himself on his arms so he can watch her, but she pulls him closer and they trade kisses and bites on every bit of skin they can reach. Her hands have tightened their hold on his limbs, and she clings to him like he is the only thing keeping her alive.

The pace they have set is punishing, and he worries momentarily that he may grind her to dust if he is not destroyed first. But she loves it, murmuring his name, over and over like a prayer, and her own hips keep pace with his. He can feel the tension in her body coiling tighter as she reaches once more for the peak of her pleasure.

He can’t go on like this for much longer, so he shifts, finds a new angle that has his pelvis grinding in _just_ the right place with every thrust. The new position means he needs a new handhold, and he grips her thighs just as tightly as she grips his arms. She has lost all her words, been reduced to gasps and whines, even as he cannot make a single sound.

Just when he thinks he won’t last a second more, Belle shifts her hips ever so subtly, and then her entire body stiffens. She spasms again, trembling from head to toe, squeezing him tight, and _gods_ , it’s so _good_ and he _roars_ her name as fire burns through his body and he breaks apart in a way he would never do if he didn’t trust her to put him back together.

He loses a moment to the mind-numbing pleasure, then he has collapsed on top of her, and she is holding him like she loves him. It takes more willpower than he knew he had, but he pulls them both up and stumbles the few feet to the bed. They only barely get under the blankets, but their shared warmth will make up for that. The last thing is he is aware of is Belle, halfway on top of him, her head pillowed on his chest, her hand resting gently over his heart. He holds her tightly, as if she is going to slip away at any moment.

When he wakes, he is alone in his bed with the disarrayed sheets and the mess that had come of the night. Closing his eyes, he does his best to will away the tears brought by the renewed knowledge that his dream will never become reality. She is dead.

He ignores the dull ache in his upper arms, sure it must be his imagination, and that there aren’t purple imprints of dainty fingers where she gripped him.

Elsewhere, hot tears fall on milky white thighs, marred by their own fingerprints, as their owner remembers, again, that he will never find her, because he doesn’t know to look.

**Author's Note:**

> No, I'm not sorry. Yes, there will be more. No, I can't tell you when. Yes, it will hurt even worse.
> 
> *cackles maniacally*


End file.
